Tocowana
by rumnernikkiee
Summary: "That's all between the river and me." First Time Offender Award in the Bad Boys of Twilight Contest
1. Chapter 1

**This was my entry for the Bad Boys of Twilight contest. My silly little story won me the First Time Offender Award. Thanks to all who voted.**

**I do plan to extend this story, but I'm a slow go at this writing thing. I want to have it complete before I start posting the rest because I know me. I get distracted easily and I don't want to stall bad between updates.**

**I have to give my undying love to my beta Daphodill Fic because without her Edward would have looked like a bumbling adolescent. Thank you Daph for putting up with my crap and dealing with my crazy.**

**I do not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. What I do own is a terrible sense of humor and a tendency to spell words like I'm British.**

**No copyright infringement was intended.**

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The old hinges squawk in complaint as the screen door opens. She is in there somewhere; I catch a whiff of fresh biscuits and lingering smell of fried chicken.

"Ma, where are ya?"

"Back here in the bedroom," she says in a voice so quiet I almost don't hear her.

Walking at a slow pace down the hallway, I look at the old school pictures on the wall, and a sense of nostalgia washes over me. Every few days I try to come over and visit, but I never come back here. Sometimes I stay with her, but my room is in the other direction. Most of the time I only stop off in the kitchen just to check on her or let her feed me. She is always trying to give me food, usually waving something fried or baked in my face. Different day, same complaint: "You're way too skinny. I got to put a little weight on ya if ya ever hope to find ya a woman worth somethin'." I never resist 'cause I can't cook worth a lick.

I snort when I come to the _family_ portrait she had us take together back when she first married my step dad. What a farce.

Daddy died when I was five, and she was quick to find a replacement. No one could ever replace what Daddy was to me, despite the short time I was able to spend with him.

Daddy was always taking me to sporting events, movies, roller skating, or any other thing a five-year-old boy would want to do with his dad. Life came to a screeching halt one day when he was driving back home from work. There was a terrible ice storm that had started before he could get home. Daddy's car skidded off the overpass of the Tocowana River, just two miles from our house.

Now I have Carl. He's a sorry replacement for what I'd lost in the chilled, frozen-over Tocowana River.

Daddy was a planner. So, Carl must have figured Ma was due a large life insurance policy. Plus, everyone knew we Masen's weren't hurtin' for money to begin with; my daddy had been a well-known attorney. Carl had started sniffing around a few months after Daddy died. He wooed and schmoozed Ma, and she fell for his charms hook, line, and sinker.

At first, everything was great. Carl played catch and took me for ice cream. He made Ma believe he was _daddy material _up until I graduated high school. I reckon more than a decade of playing house wore on poor ole Carl; his true colors showed when I left for college. Carl is a sorry, no good drunk who needed a paycheck and a warm body to stick his pecker in. Esme Masen is his cash cow. So, when his prized heifer doesn't cooperate, he never hesitates to remind her who is the one showing her off.

I could have … should have … gone to Daddy's Alma Mater. I settled for Vanderbilt University instead; it's in the top twenty law schools, but it's not Yale. A degree from Vanderbilt would do and I was never more than a thirty minute drive from the house.

I didn't—don't—trust Carl. Who knows what junk he pulls when I'm not here. Once, I caught him grabbing on Ma, yelling not even inches from her face. Reckon he likes to get handsy when he's had a bit too much to drink, but he won't pull much if he knows I'm nearby.

The bedroom door is ajar, so I walk in. The room is as disheveled as my poor mother. On a normal day she's one of those women without a hair out of place. Ma never lets the old biddies in town see her sweat. She never leaves the house without her face on and hair done; at home, she has always been just as flawless, but without the airs. Now, here she is with the collar loose around her neck, and her hair ruffled. Tear tracks mar the thick coat of makeup she wears but doesn't need. Ma's voice cracks when she tries to speak, but before she can get a word out I hear a motor rev. I snarl as she shoves me in the closet.

"Carl can't see ya. I gotta rid of him," she whisper-yells, pushing me between her dresses and slamming the door in my face.

I breathe in hairspray and White Diamonds, and am wistful until I realize where I am—tangled up in the costumes of the woman she pretends to be. The junk she uses to fit in with the other high-society women who don't know what goes on behind the closed doors of Esme Cullen's white Antebellum home.

Brakes whine while gravel crunches under the tires. I swear his douche mobile audibly groans from his abrupt stop. Leaning my head against the inside of the closet, I listen to his door slam and feet pound on the front porch.

Twenty-five.

The number of staggered steps he takes to get from the front door to their bedroom.

Carl opens the door with such force the closet rattles when the knob strikes the wall. He reeks of Jack, sweat, and smoke ... must be too drunk to notice, or too drunk to care that my truck is in the yard. Even at his worst, if he realized I was here, he'd be on his way back out the door like the coward he truly is.

The yelling starts. Not long after, the springs of their expensive mattress protest their weight. Buttons pop and fabric rips.

Twenty-five.

The number of groans from the springs.

Twenty-five.

What I keep counting to trying to block out what I see and hear through the slats of the closet door.

Twenty-five.

The breaths I take in order to tamp down the rage boiling in the pit of my stomach.

The closet door comes off its hinges as I burst from my hiding spot. Fury bubbles inside of me like I have never felt before. Ma works her facade a little too well. I knew things hadn't been great between them, but everything is much worse than I could ever fathom. I could only assume Carl was acting out physically. That is why I stayed close, just in case. I never had concrete evidence until today. Just because he's married to her, doesn't mean no quit meaning no. Nausea rolls and bile rises in the back of my throat when I take in the scene in front of me. I swallow it back before I actually vomit on Ma's high-dollar Persian rug.

Carl falls to the floor, getting hemmed up in his pants after I pull him off of Ma. He's struggling with his clothes behind me, but right now my mother is my only concern.

My voice has left me, and I am almost unable croak out a whispered, "Ma," before she is silencing me with her fingers against my lips.

"It's okay," she whispers as if lying out loud will make the statement true. Bruises are forming at her neck, and her naked breasts show through torn fabric.

This is anything but okay.

The clanking of Carl's belt buckle pulls my attention from my mother. He leers at the two of us and gives a suggestive wag of his eyebrows before he slips out the door.

Twenty-five steps and Carl is back in his truck, flinging gravel.

I should have killed him right then.

I should have wrung Carl's neck.

Instead, he tried to wring hers.

I all but run out to my old, red rust bucket of a truck. Rowanda, my Ford pickup, is as old as the dirt clinging to her tires. Despite her age, she always gets me where I need to go. This time, I need to go to the Tocowana River. Carl likes to visit the riverside and _fish._ _Fishin' _is code for: get drunk as ole Cooter Brown and passing out in the driver's seat of his truck.

Parking beside Carl's truck, I step out on the red clay mud that graces each side of the river.

I stomp his way, hollering, "Carl, don'cha think maybe ya should pick on someone your own size for a change?" The only clue I get he is aware of my presence is him flinching when I slam the truck's door.

He glances over his shoulder at me. "Ya ain't quite my type, pretty boy. Too skinny." He winks at me. "How'd ya enjoy the show?" he says, slurring slightly as he heaves himself out of his lawn chair to toe the water's edge. "Maybe if ya had different plumbing ya could have joined in on our fun." The same fingers that just choked my mother tighten the cap back onto his bottle of whiskey, which he then he slips into his breast pocket. By the time I make my way to him, his shoulders are bobbing from laughter and he loses his footing on the slick, red clay. The chilled Tocowana waters catch him when he lands on his hands and knees.

My vision is white hot as icy water splash my cheek from Carl's fall. Next thing I know, I'm fisting blond hair at his crown and dragging him deeper into the river with his legs flailing behind us.

His head bobs. Once. Twice. The third time I hold him under until he goes limp.

I never gave much thought to how it would feel killing a man. If someone had asked me any other day if would kill someone, I'd say naw. If there were ever a time, though, I would do what needs to be done.

Now was one of those times, I reckon.

I laugh out loud when I pull Carl out of the water to look at him one last time. Even if he were able to stand tall right now I would be a head taller than him. I pull the Jack from Carl's pocket and take a swig. I sloppily wipe off the lip of the bottle and slip it back into the front pocket of his plaid, cutoff shirt, before dropping him back into the water. Sloshing my way to the shore, I try to shake off the water clinging to my ankles and boots. Some might say I'm being reckless, but the moment he laid his hands on my mama, I quit caring.

Rowanda takes me back into town. Rowanda understands me. But like any other woman, she's mouthing her distaste in me. The poor ole broad coughs and sputters the whole drive home. I try to not stress her out too much, so I drive slow. Plus, I like to enjoy the scenery from time to time.

Tocowana is beautiful in the late evening, where the day slowly surrenders to the fight of the night. The sun, she shines, but even she has to rest. Her warm rays are replaced by the glow of a full moon and the chill of a soft breeze. The aroma of fresh cut grass is replaced with the overwhelming scent of wood burning in smokers and bonfires.

When I get back to the house, I greet Ma with a kiss on her cheek. From over her shoulder, she looks at me skeptically and asks where I've been. Ma stops her ministrations at the stove when I pull out a chair, scraping the legs across her pecan floors before I plop down in it. Green eyes to green eyes; the expression on her face tells me she knows I have more information than I'm going to give her. Ma lets her questions go because, honest to goodness, I reckon she doesn't want to learn the truth.

I give her a shrug while playing with my fork and napkin. "What's for supper?"

"You'd think you were raised in a barn, Edward Anthony. Get those muddy boots outta my kitchen. I just mopped." The subject of where I was and what I was doing has officially been dropped.

Later, Ma worries when poor Carl never darkens her doorstep. Usually, he's passed out in his truck at a local bar or at the river, ironically. Ever hopeful, Ma waits for Carl to stagger home. This is the reason I came back after school. I don't want to leave Ma alone, and she doesn't like to be alone. Maybe that is why she settled for Carl, he keeps coming back.

The next morning, Ma is up with the chickens and fussing over breakfast when I hear a heavy knock at the front door. Ma's voice greets the visitor, who she calls "Deputy." Seems the Sheriff's Department may have sent someone to inform Ma of Carl's death. Carl, the poor schmuck, ain't coming home.

There is no way I'm missing this.

Clamoring out my bedroom while yanking sweats up my legs, I stumble into what has to be the prettiest thing I have ever seen wearing black and brown polyester.

Who the Sheriff sends on this errand is the devil incarnate. This woman is killing me. Her dark brown hair is piled on her head like an angelic milk maid. She has worried those pouty lips of hers to death with her teeth. The only worrying I want her doing is worrying about when she is going to kiss me. Let's not forget her huge, brown, Anime eyes framed with eyelashes that graze her eyebrows.

The young lady looks surprised to see me, but I reckon it's because I almost plowed her over in my haste to receive the _good news_. Doesn't help that I'm grinning like a dang fool even as "Carlisle Cullen is dead" spills from her pretty lips. She looks displeased. Reckon I should be taking the news of my step dad dying harder than I am, but she is so dag burn pretty my heart hurts.

Ma offers the deputy sweet tea and a spot on the couch like any good Southern hostess would. Short and beautiful denies the sweet tea, but does make herself as relaxed as she can in those uncomfortable looking pants.

"At about seven o'clock this morning, I was making my patrols when I saw something suspicious in the Tocowana River." The deputy swipes her palms on her knees, which draws my attention to her hands. She ain't wearing a wedding ring. There ain't even a tan line or an indention evident on _that _finger. "I'll save you the gory details, Mrs. Cullen, but I found Mr. Cullen face first in the water on the riverbank."

Ma gasps, and I catch a good look at her. She has on a turtleneck and enough makeup to ice a cake.

I wonder if Carl's face was fish food. I snort out a laugh—probably not the best idea I've had to date. The beauty with the Tootsie Roll-colored eyes snaps them my way, giving me a hard stare. I ain't even gonna lie, I want chocolate now.

Getting caught's not one of my main concerns. I've seen these cases before. A family member wants to call foul play when a loved one, drunk as a skunk, gets too close to the river. Not much can be done when the river washes away most, if not all, evidence. All the evidence needed to rule the death as an accidental drowning is a simple blood draw.

"Mr. Cullen's blood alcohol content was a point nineteen. The Department is assuming he fell into the river and drowned," she states, her eyes never leave mine. Ma is reduced to tears, and I can tell crying is something the deputy doesn't handle well. She pats her shapely thighs then heaves herself up, wobbling, and I wonder if she is as affected by me as I am her.

Nodding to Ma she says, "Well, Mrs. Cullen, I hate to come bearing bad news and leave, but I need to get going. If I can do anything for you at all, don't hesitate to ask."

Ma responds by choking out, "Thank you for coming by, Deputy Swan. I wish we'd met under better circumstances." Ma has had way more than she can stand—she turns to go to her room down the hall.

Deputy Swanturns and walks toward her cruiser. I follow her 'cause I can't let her get too far too fast without speaking to her on a _personal _level. The screen door slams and she startles like a newborn foal. She turns to face me so fast she has to spit hair out of her face. I can't help but laugh a little. She's so small my chest receives most of her glares. "Mr. Cullen, your dad died last night. You might want to have a tad bit more sympathy."

A gust of air parts my lips, making a pfft sound. "First off, sugar, I'm a Masen, not a Cullen." I hold up one finger. "I don't share a lick of DNA with that trash, and wouldn't have taken his name even if my real daddy was a piece of crap." I step a little closer and hold up another finger. "Second, I never caught your first name, Deputy _Swan_." She's so close I can touch her. Hair has fallen out of the intricate braid that's piled on her head ... I wonder if it's is as soft as it looks. So I grab a lock of her homespun chocolate and tug a little before tucking the strands behind her ear—newborn baby fuzz ain't as soft. My fingers graze the back of the two gold studs in her left ear, they catch the morning light. She has an extra stud in the tippy top shell of her ear, too. Mesmerized, I trace my finger up to the small diamond. Never seen something like that before—I like the extra piercing. Just that small piece of jewelry leaves me wondering if there's anymore hidden beneath her uniform.

Before I can get too lost in my thoughts, she slaps my hand away and huffs. "Well, Mr. Masen, doesn't matter if we get to know each other on a first-name basis. All you will be is a number if I can link you to Carlisle Cullen's death. The Department says Mr. Cullen's death was an accident. His blood alcohol content was through the roof, and all the evidence looks like he fell in the river and drowned. An accident is what they say, but after today I don't feel like that's really what happened." She pauses to catch her breath, and a blush sprouts up from the neckline of her black button-up. "I come in, and you appear all too happy to find out your step dad has died," she says, jabbing two little, bony fingers into my sternum while she continues to flail about, ranting and raving. She takes those same two fingers and points them at the house. Can't help but notice her gesture is like a gun. "Also, red clay is on the boots by the door that look a little too big for the late Mr. Cullen's feet." Her penetrating gaze starts at the top of my copper-colored hair and lands on my bare toes wiggling in Ma's freshly trimmed Bermuda grass. Then, she turns to her attention to Rowanda and stalks towards my beloved truck. "The same red clay is on the rusted, red heap of truck in the front yard." I gasp because I can't believe she's dragging Rowanda into this. She starts to saunter my way. Devil hips swing while her cuffs clap an ovation. She whispers, "Plus, I can't neglect the red clay under your nails, too. The Department might have called Mr. Cullen's death an accident, but I detect a skunk."

When she finishes her little rant, trying to get in my face as best as someone her height can, her finger jabs me through my thin white tee again.

Raising one arm, then the other, I smell each of my armpits and smirk at her. "It ain't me that you smell, sugar."

Tootsie, on the other hand, smells like honeysuckle, and I wonder if she tastes like it, too. I put the brakes on that particular train of thought before it ever leaves the station and gets me into even bigger trouble.

Guess I seem dense because she huffs and clomps off back to her cruiser in those fugly mandatory boots. The boots might be fugly as all get out, but I wouldn't mind unlacing them to find her—what I'm sure would be—dainty toes. Instead, she flings her body into the cruiser, huffing and puffing so much I expect her to blow down Ma's house. She cranks the engine, and music comes blaring out of the stereo.

"_I might have had a plan, but he didn't know it._

_I might have been scared, but I didn't show it._

_That's all between the river and me._

_With the current and the rocks it could have been risky._

_He might have been sober, but I brought the whiskey._

_That's all between the river and me."_

Uncontrollable laughter has me bent over, half wheezing at the irony of the moment—of all the songs in the world to come out of the deputy's speakers.

Somehow, I compose myself a little. I know I'm not making myself any less obvious about what really happened to Carl. I can't help myself, though. These past two days have been the strangest ones of my life, and the little devil parked in my mom's front yard is just a fraction of my problems.

For me to be attracted to a deputy ain't a huge problem. The problem is: the same deputy thinks I'm guilty of murder. She ain't wrong in her assumptions, I'm guiltier than a fox with a mouth full of feathers, but that's beside the point.

Leaning down into the open window on folded arms, I smile at her. She's breathing a little heavy. "I don't know what ya presume happened to Carl, Tootsie, but you're wrong. Carl was a mean ole drunk who got too close to the water. Might not want to start playing blame games if ya can't come up with proof. A sweet little thing like you could only embarrass herself and make things worse without the evidence." I tap my finger on the small dimple I just noticed in her chin.

The devil whoops her siren at me, so I jump back with my hands up, still smiling.

"Mr. Masen, I may not have concrete evidence, yet, but I will do everything in my power to get it." She shifts her car into drive and gravel crunches below her tires as she lets off the brake slightly. Leaning out her window a little, her eyes never leaving mine. "Might want to be a little more careful, Masen. I'm watching you."

This thought makes me flat out giddy, and I decide there ain't much I wouldn't do to draw her attention.


	2. Chapter 2

It's me again Margaret.

Y'all still with me?

I have a few chapters written. I am about 1/2 through with the story on my end so I will hopefully start posting chapters soon.

I posted this on Facebook for a dear friend of mine's birthday, so I figured I ought to go ahead and post it here too(actually it was Daph's idea/I can't take credit).

Happy Birthday, Shika (luvtwilight4eva). I hope your day was awesome. I know I had a lot of fun virtually celebrating with you. Even if you did get kind of creepy and blow up my notifications. :P

I also have to thank Daphodill Fic who is always there to correct my verb tenses and hand me a virtual paper bag when I hyperventilate (she didn't beta this a/n so don't judge me).

What I own? The inability to quit double spacing.

What I don't own? The characters or the Twilight brand.

What I do own? This plot line, so don't steal it. That's tacky.

Onward.

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What do you mean the body is already in the cremator?" she screeches into the receiver. "I needed that body for an investigation." She is rubbing her temples but keeps the phone squeezed between her ear and her shoulder. The angry glow on her face is radiant. "You didn't have orders to hold the body? All right, all right. Have a good evening, Mr. Black." She slams the receiver down multiple times with a 'clack, clack, clack' while mumbling under her breath the entire time. Now that she is off the phone, I make my way towards her desk. "What do you want?" She's grumpy; I've got just the thing to turn that frown upside down.

"I come in peace and bearing gifts." She doesn't look nearly as enthusiastic as I had hoped at my peace offering. "When I was out and about this morning, I came across some wild flowers and they reminded me of my favorite deputy." I hand her an armload of Brown Eyed Susans and Honeysuckle.

She turns that pretty little button nose up at me and asks with a snarl "What am I supposed to do with a bunch of weeds?"

"Well, I reckon if you don't want my flowers then you sure don't want my candy," I say as I toss a half-eaten bag of Tootsie Rolls on her desk and flop down in the chair beside her desk. Plucking a piece of chewy, chocolate Heaven and unrolling the wrapper, I pop it between my teeth. "Surely, after our little tête-à-tête yesterday, you'd be more than happy to see me, Tootsie." I smack words out, licking and sucking chocolate from the caps on my molars. More than likely there is chocolate between my teeth, but I don't have it in me to care. So I smile at her anyways. "I mighta missed ya a little."

"Again, why are you here?"

"Geeze, Tootsie, can you at least be a little happy to see me?" Smacking my lips as I clean chewy candy out of my teeth. "Was that Black Heart's Crematorium? Upset he wouldn't take you on a date?" The sound that escapes me is somewhere between a snort and a laugh. I crack myself up. "I didn't take the ole creeper for your type. Do I need come back when I've aged thirty years?"

"Mr. Masen, it's Black's Funeral Home, and also none of your business who I was talking to." That little nose of hers turns up and then she faces her computer screen. I wonder how she can even see from that angle. Tilting my head back to mimic her exact angle, I look down my nose at her brown desk. My eyes cross, and I shake my head.

"So, you were talking to Black?"

Grunting, she replies, "No comment." My hands find all the little knick-knacks on her desk. There is a bronzed .32 Smith &amp; Wesson pistol, a glass paperweight with a Fayette county sheriff's badge set inside, and a dragonfly fashioned out of bullets. I pick up the lone picture frame on the desk and almost drop it as if it bit me.

Smiling back at me are Tootsie, a woman I assume is her mama, and… Sheriff Swan. In such a small town I'm not sure how I never put two-and-two together and realized that my little Tootsie Roll is the Good Sheriff's daughter. Now I know why she has been trying so hard to catch me: she wants to prove her position isn't just nepotism. For a second, I almost feel sorry for her, but then I remember she _is _trying to put me in jail.

"Unless you're here to turn yourself in, you have no reason to be here Mr. Masen." Tootsie's fingers are flying across the keyboard and I wonder what could be so interesting in this small town to make her type a document that rivals my dissertation. I take a peep over her shoulder and see "aknfadkngakbnfgfpkafmkgnakjfkfoi….. hhoafidgnnga," and bark out a laugh. Tootsie is avoiding me. Her cheeks pinken when she realizes she has been caught.

As I start to walk away she yells at me, "this isn't over, Masen."

I turn and tip my head her way. "I sincerely hope not, Tootsie." Probably should start paying more attention to where I'm going, but I have a hard time concentrating when I'm in her presence. Spinning around suddenly, I run smack into the man of the hour—Sheriff Swan. "'Sup, Swanie? How's it hanging?" I should just shut up now. That woman behind me makes me plum stupid. His black, walrus mustache twitches at me, and his eyes twinkle with mischief.

"Slightly to the left. Only slightly because I can't go commando. This polyester chafes."

The tips of my ears heat and are probably as red as the Chief's daughter's cheeks right now. She must be as mortified as I am.

Speechless, I mock-salute the sheriff and leave him be. I stand in the doorway to watch him talk to Tootsie. She is talking with her hands again, doing that whole whisper-yell thing because she doesn't want anyone to overhear. It is working because I can't hear a thing she is saying. She points in my general direction; I reckon she doesn't know I am still around after my run in with her daddy. Reckon she figured I would hightail it outta here after all that, but here I am, propped up in the doorway, mesmerized by her. Her gaze slowly follows where her finger has pointed to and finds me still lingering. Huffing, she stalks to her daddy's office and slams the door. Pictures of past sheriffs bang against the old wood paneled wall; the one of Swanie leans slightly to the left. He turns to me and shrugs while tipping a silver travel mug to his lips.

The man ain't a drunk, but I know for a fact he slips a shot of Bailey's in his coffee. After meeting his daughter I can see why. If I were him, I would have to be a little knackered up to keep from beating anyone who even glanced her way with my night stick. Jokes on him, though—I wouldn't mind beating _her _with _my _night stick.

I reckon she hasn't really made the connection yet. I haven't been at the 25th Judicial District Attorney's office long. Which, to tell the truth, for as long as I have known him, I didn't realize ole Swanie had a daughter old enough to be a deputy. He always talks about his little girl, but I just figured she was twelve or somethin', not grown, and definitely not _that_ pretty. Swanie ain't a bad lookin' feller, but he just doesn't do it for me. His daughter on the other hand…

The DA's office has given me a few days off for bereavement. They figured I needed a few days to _mourn _my loss. The only thing my mini-vacation is doing is giving me time to think about a certain brown-eyed beauty—and I don't mean Swanie.

As much as I like the man, Swanie only complicates things. Tootsie is the apple of her daddy's eye, and I reckon I need to use my vacation time to see if I really want to be the worm that spoils her. I already know the answer to that. Yes. Yes, I do.


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm back!**

**I figured I would go ahead and start posting. I have some chapters saved up and I'm still writing. I hope to update weekly.**

**There's some personal experience below. See if you can pick it out.  
**

**None of this could happen without Daphodill Fic making sure I describe her man meat perfectly. Oh and I reckon correct my errors too.**

**Thanks for reading.**

**Twilight isn't mine. What is mine is a work computer that won't work (hence the reason you are getting this so early). Also the plot is mine, so don't steal it.**

* * *

_Fayette County Sheriff's Department._

Click.

_Current deputies._

Click. Click.

_Isabella Swan._

The computer stalls from the repetitive clicks of my mouse.

"Danggit. Doggone stupid computer." I slap the mouse around a few times then smack my frozen computer screen.

"Masen." I about jump out of my skin. For someone so large, Emmett McCarty sure is sneaky. The only time his stealth hasn't worked in his favor was the time we were rolling his aunt's yard. He saw a light flick on in the house and jumped into the closest bush. Too bad the closest bush was a holly. He was madder than an ole sore-tail cat, and came out of the bush hollering like he was on fire. Emmett, who is always in shorts and flipflops when not in his suit, was poked by the holly's pointy leaves. He hollered like a girl and got us caught. The next morning, we were up bright and early cleaning up the mess of toilet paper we left. If only he would have listened to me and wore jeans and tennis shoes we never would have had a problem, but his response was, "Man, all this body is too hot to lock in stuffy pants and tennis shoes."

I reckon that's what we deserved for rolling yards in our twenties like we were a couple of teenagers drunk off our parent's hidden hooch.

Despite my current ire with my computer, I laugh.

"Whatcha laughin' about, son? Cute girl." Emmett comes into my office and flops his large body into one of the leather chairs adjacent to my desk.

I spin my office chair to look at him. "Mitt, what the heck do you want?" I ask while tossing a stray paper clip at his head. "And why in the world are you calling me 'son'?"

Once, I overheard some chicks in a bar refer to him as an _Adonis_. Reckon the term could fit. Between his deep-set dimples and light blue eyes, he could charm just about anyone. His expression is always one of mischief. Normally, he is concocting some hair-brained idea that could more than likely land me in a whole heap of trouble—or jail.

In light of my current infatuation with one of the newest deputies, the latter might not be so bad. But I might ought to stay under the radar with the whole killing Carl thing. Especially with Tootsie and her ole coon hound nose.

Mitt pulls me out of my stupor by tossing my stray paper clip back at me, hitting me squarely between my eyes. Shaking the fuzz out of my head, I scowl at him. He could at least have enough sense to look shameful. This is Mitt; he has no shame.

He shrugs. "Just trying it on for size since I'm gonna be your new daddy. You can call me 'Papa,' 'Pops,' 'Father,' or just 'Dad.' Not 'Daddy,' though, that's reserved for your mama."

I lob the closest thing on my desk at him, which this time happens to be the stapler. He bobs out of the way. The stapler goes flying out the door and then rolls across the carpet, stopping in front of our paralegal's desk.

Mitt jumps up and retrieves the stapler. "Nothing to see here," he shouts as he slams the door in her gawking face.

There is a beat of silence before chair legs claw at the carpet on my office floor as he pulls the chair closer to my desk. Leaning over towards me, he props his elbows on my desk and looks me square in the eyes.

"Naw, man. I'm serious." The look in his eyes is one of the most sincere I have ever seen him have in a long time. At least not since the time he tried to talk me into giving him the last piece of strawberry cake Ma baked me for my birthday last year.

"I've been hard up for your mama since I moved here after my bar exam."

"I don't know, Mitt. She just lost Carl. You really think it's a good idea?"

"Ed, I really don't know man, but I have to try. She was with that sorry son for way too long. You don't think I can treat your mama right?"

"I'm sure you can. I've just never seen you with anyone steady."

Leaning back in his seat, he props his elbows on the armrests, lips touching tented fingers; he's actually thinking before he speaks for a change. "That's because I have been holding out hope your mama would kick her ole man to the curb."

"So you're here for my blessing?"

"Naw, I'm just here to give you a head's up, man. Your mama's grown, and I'm grown."

"Just so you know—if you hurt Ma…" I trail off.

He hauls all of his 290 pounds of pure muscle out of his chair. Heading for the door, he turns to look at me.

"What? You'll kill me?" He raises a thick, bushy eyebrow at me—challenging me. "I ain't Carl."

My mouth runs dry after I choke on the little bit of spit that is left in my mouth. Tugging slightly and the knot in my tie I ask, "Whatcha mean?"

"Huh? Whatchu mean, what I mean?"

"You said, I ain't Carl," I repeat his words back to him.

"Oh, you know. He was scrawny," he says with a scowl. "And short. Plus, nothing could compare to all of this." As if I need clarification to what he is talking about, he gestures to his body.

I want to believe that Mitt has no clue, but you never know with this guy. He didn't get his reputation of being one of the best attorneys in the area by not being perceptive. I just let him go for now, hoping he is as clueless as he is letting on to be.

When he turns back towards the door and grabs the knob, I holler at him, "I ain't calling you 'Dad,' Mitt."

Laughing, he tells me, "I didn't figure you would, Edweirdo. Later tater."

My office door clicks shut and I'm left alone again with my thoughts. I know deep down Mitt will take care of Ma despite their thirteen year age difference. Obviously, Ma thinks she needs a man if she settled for Carl. Emmett McCarty wouldn't be the worst choice for her. That is if she will even let him in.

I try not to think about that too much. Tell ya the truth, it kind of gives me the heebie jeebies. I shudder and turn back to my computer.

On to more important things. I tap the keys trying to think of ways to catch the Tootsie Roll-tinted eye of my lady love.

She did say she would be watching me, so I need to give her something to check out other than my dashing good looks.

Entering our criminal database, I scroll the records of men who walk free among us but probably should be behind bars.

_Stan Goldstone._

_Public intoxication._

_Domestic disturbance._

_Aggravated assault involving his live-in girlfriend._

Winner, winner, chicken dinner.

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**Ever get caught with your computer froze to something you probably shouldn't?**

**I won't beg, but I will ask. Please review. I get all fuzzy.**


	4. Chapter 4

**What do they say? Absence makes the heart grow fonder? I'll try to to disappear again. I'm medicated again.**

**I hope I still have you guys with me.**

**Daphodill Fic betas and badgers me... :)**

**I may or may not have tweaked it after she looked at it... so blame me, not her. No, totally blame her.**

**The characters? Not mine.**

**The plot? Definitely mine... don't steal it. Have some class.**

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Stan Goldstone is a Grade A douche.

His property backs up to Ma's. I figured out that the old oak tree at our property line has low branches which are perfect for climbing. About halfway up, sight lines give a perfect view into Stan's living room. Lucky for me, his bedroom is right above the living room.

Stan wakes up, and the first thing he does after taking a leak is head to the liquor cabinet.

He goes to work. Sneaks another drink.

He comes home and drinks until he is incoherent.

Reckon that wouldn't be much of a problem if he were on his own, but he ignores his family. The woman he has been living with him begs for attention. The only attention he gives her is a good smack when she gets in his way.

The Goldstones are old money, and Stan ain't nothing but a snotty ole brat. He always had way too much time on his hands and not enough guidance on how to spend his money properly. I know not everyone with a trust fund turns out the way Stan did.

_If so, helloooooo pot__.__ I'm kettle. _

Stan's parents were negligent. They let nannies raise him, and never once tried to teach him right from wrong. Their social life was always more important than the life they created together. Heck, if I had to pick his parents out of a crowd, I wouldn't be able to do it.

A shuffle and crunch of leaves announces the arrival of a visitor and breaks me out of my thoughts. There is a light thump against the tree branch that has become my seat.

I look down, and green eyes full of mirth stare back at me.

Laughing, I climb down from the tree. "Ma, you throwing acorns at me?"

Her hair is pulled back off her face. Jeans grace her legs and she is wearing a t-shirt; those two things I never realized my mother owned. Surely, she is breaking some kind of high-society rule by letting denim within a hundred feet of her body.

The most breathtaking part, though, is the glow radiating from her face. She is happy. Something I can't say I have seen in a _very _long time.

"Get on down here and quit being a creep," she says with a laugh. "I cooked your favorite. Let's get on to the house before everything gets cold."

We walk back in relative silence. The only noises between the two of us are the shuffle of our feet and the birds in the trees. Ma knows I'm not good with small talk, so she indulges me with silence minus idle chitchat.

We reach the back porch, and I toe off my boots. The house smells like roast. I know that there will be a skillet of cornbread and a bowl of horseradish mayonnaise waiting along with potatoes and carrots. Maybe a pot of purple hulled peas. These are the type of things I expect in Ma's kitchen.

What I don't expect is a crock pot perched on my mother's high-dollar granite countertop. Shocked, I look at her like a gaping fish out of water.

All she does is giggle.

Ma got me so full at dinnertime. It was so late before we got finished watching sitcoms together that I just decided to stay with her. I have been doing this a lot since Carl died. At about midnight, I catch a second wind and get a hankerin' for something to eat. I vaguely remember there might be a jar of pickled okra Ma canned a couple of weeks ago on the refrigerator door. So I climb out of bed to go investigate.

Walking quietly was never my strong suit. Ma always said I sounded like Frankenstein's monster walking through the house, so I walk as quietly as I can to the kitchen.

Opening the fridge, I see exactly what I came looking for. I screw the ring off the jar. The seal gives a sucking pop after I pry the top off with my thumb. Right there is the pop of freshness.

My eyes roll into the back of my head after eating half of the pickled vegetable. Swear to it—I just touched the hem of His garment when I sucked the juice that collected within each piece of okra. Better than any drug or alcohol.

"Edward Anthony," Ma scolds behind me, and I almost come out of my skin.

"What are you doing with that door gaping wide open? I already have the air conditioner on. I don't need you cooling the house any more than it already is."

I give her a sheepish look because I really can't say how many times I have heard that phrase before.

"Bring that okra over here." She takes a seat at the bar and pats the chair beside her.

I feel like a po dunk Golden Girl sitting here with Ma and a jar of pickled okra between us rather than a cheesecake.

"Is it true, Ed?" She fishes a piece of okra out of the jar and takes a bite, humming in appreciation.

"Is what true, Ma?" I polish off what remains of the okra she interrupted me eating in front of the fridge and go back to the jar for another one.

"About Carl. I've been meaning to ask you for weeks now, but I can never muster up the courage to ask and get the real answer."

I just stare at her, okra poised between my lips waiting for me to bite into it. "Ma, Carl's dead," I state flatly.

"I know he's dead, Edward. I ain't daft. What I wanna know is what the deputy said true."

I shrug. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

Slapping me on the back of the head, she speaks through gritted teeth. "Quit playing dumb, boy. Did you or did you not kill Carl?"

"Define kill?"

She shrieks a girly sound and shakes my chair. "I really wish you'd stop."

"Stop what?"

"Avoiding me."

"I'm not avoiding you, Ma. Why do you need to know? You writing a book?"

"No… ," she trails off and looks down at her hands, playing with the ring from the mason jar.

The quiet between us seems to stretch on forever when she looks up at me and whispers, "Thank you. For the first time in a long time, I feel free"

I'm not sure exactly how she knows what I did, but she does. Reckon it's a mother's intuition. I also know my secret is safe with her.

She pulls me towards her by my shoulders and kisses me on the top of my head.

"You know you don't have to do it, Edward," she whispers in my ear just before she releases me.

"Do what, Ma?"

"Something stupid to get that Deputy's attention."

I just stare at her with my mouth agape, sucking air.

"Wha… ? How… ?"

She pats my cheek, then hops off her barstool and walks away from me.

Glancing my way once more she says, "Goodnight, son," and disappears down the dark hallway

For the first time, I start to doubt if killing Stan is really the right thing to do, but then I think of his girlfriend. I think about all the abuse she's endured because she doesn't have anywhere else to go.

No woman deserves the treatment she's received.

Like Ma, I need to set Stan's girlfriend free of the abuse.

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** I know y'all are out there lurking. Reviews are like sunshine and rainbows and all that other frilly crap that leaves you warm inside.**


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